Home/Body
My mother was a house
I couldn’t quit soon enough,
a place with peepholes
I poured out through and
doors that opened in every
dark so in my sleep, bags
of ballast slipped from
around me and I spun
uncentered from cellar to attic.
I couldn’t see she was soldered
to me under my skin, this mess
of her then me, mortgage I
can’t pay no matter how raw
I run. How wrong I rattled
around in her rooms.
Laurinda Lind lives in New York’s North Country, close to Canada. Some of her poems are in Atlanta Review, Blue Earth Review, New American Writing, and Spillway. She is a Keats-Shelley Prize winner and a finalist in several other competitions, most recently the Joy Bale Boon Poetry Prize and the Jack Grapes Poetry Prize.
